


the secret garden

by shell-heads (chocopies)



Series: Cap/IM Bingo [4]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocopies/pseuds/shell-heads
Summary: He'd read a book on flowers with his mom once, Tony remembers. She'd been planning a garden with Jarvis as a memorial for her brother, and Tony had sat on her lap and flipped pages to help her choose. They'd spent two hours painstakingly deciding what to plant, his mother's wet eyes and trembling smile a faded photograph sketching itself into his mind."Every flower has a meaning, darling," she'd told him softly, "and each one is precious because of it. Flowers can tell a story better than a person can sometimes, and they can tell you more about a person than you know.""What's your garden going to say?" he'd asked in reply, twisting up to look at her solemnly."It's going to tell people I love someone very much," she'd answered with a kiss to his forehead, voice quiet and thick. "And that I miss them."There are many things he is, in this moment and all the moments that have lead to this-a symbol, a mistake, a hypocrite, a man on a mountain-but Tony knows now he is a garden.Tony is a mourning garden, and his flowers are melancholy remains that carry tales of a love had, a love cherished, a love more precious than anything-a love lost.





	the secret garden

**Author's Note:**

> written for my stony bingo card "grief"; post civil war feels. please note there is a somewhat graphic depiction of blood in this as well as loaded flower language. all flower meanings used can be found [here](https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers)

There's a glass of smooth whiskey on the table, the amber glow of his worst enemy staring back at him with a tempting croon. A chrome tabletop gleams underneath, harsh lights reflecting off it from the lab ceiling above. His hands are holding onto a blood-stained uniform with what little strength they have left, shaking with the desire to both strangle the cloth and shred it until there's nothing left but bare threads of a past he hates to remember and hold it more dearly than anything else in this world because it's a reminder of something more important to him than anything on this planet.

He runs his fingers over its seams and tears with a soft touch, ignoring the fire behind his eyes and trying to maintain some semblance of control despite the privacy of his own space.

He's cried enough. More than he deserves to.

A cruel sentiment, when he knows he's been scraped raw of everything inside to leave a gaping wound that will never heal. There's blood pooling in the bottom of his core, his walls bruised and pulsing weakly as they're torn and scratched up by jagged shards of twisted glass, vines and brambles and thorns of memories poking at his injured flesh in piercing spires.

He'd read a book on flowers with his mom once, Tony remembers. She'd been planning a garden with Jarvis as a memorial for her brother, and Tony had sat on her lap and flipped pages to help her choose. They'd spent two hours painstakingly deciding what to plant, his mother's wet eyes and trembling smile a faded photograph sketching itself into his mind.

"Every flower has a meaning, darling," she'd told him softly, "and each one is precious because of it. Flowers can tell a story better than a person can sometimes, and they can tell you more about a person than you know."

"What's your garden going to say?" he'd asked in reply, twisting up to look at her solemnly.

Reaching a hand out to push back the fall of his hair, his mother pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"It's going to tell people I love someone very much," she'd answered, quiet and thick. "And that I miss them."

There are many things he is, in this moment and all the moments that have lead to this-a symbol, a mistake, a hypocrite, a man on a mountain-but Tony knows now he is a garden.

He is a weeping willow, flowers and leaves staining themselves in the shallow reds of the blood that saturates the floor beneath. He is yarrow, clean sprouts of whites surrounding yellow spots of future seeds, tangling with mixed zinnias to form a mourning shroud just over his heart. He is pink carnations in all their brightness amidst the dark of his soul, stained with the dripping ichor of his broken heart. Rosemary, weaving itself amongst the flowers with the stubbornness of a mule, sorrow-bloomed cyclamen attempting to push itself out of the bare grounds of Tony's body despite his best efforts to stomp it down. At the outer edges of the garden lies a fence of begonias and rhodendrons, a glaring warning sign for those outside: it is not safe here.

The garden is a reflection of Tony, a tale of his grief in beautiful petals and stalks streaked with bloody veins, pregnant with meaning and weighted by the thorny reminders of their existence. There are flowers that have been lost, wilting and dissolving into fine sand over the years, but some are fresh, planted and bloomed and stretching out to their fullest existence already. There are creeping roots inside his skin, threatening to burst out and absorb him into the ever-growing garden dwelling mere inches beneath.

Tony is a mourning garden, and his flowers are melancholy remains that carry tales of a love had, a love cherished, a love more precious than anything-a love lost.

There'd been red roses in the garden, once, gorgeous and open in the light. He wishes the red roses they'd stayed. They'd been so beautiful, all these years-had persevered and grew and filled him to the brim no matter how many droughts they'd suffered because of his mistakes, a field of vivid color amidst even the darkest of times. 

Tony supposes the yarrow is as close as he'll ever get to having that again, just like this torn uniform is as close as he'll ever be able to get to Steve now.

He left all his red roses on Steve's coffin the day of the funeral. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this while sick and emotional over stony, so please let me know if i made any mistakes and feel free to leave me a comment here or talk to me on tumblr [@shell-heads](http://shell-heads.tumblr.com)! side note: despite the reference link given, the meaning of red roses i chose to use here isn't just "i love you" but rather"true love" as well!!


End file.
